Cabernet Sauvignon
by Pierides
Summary: It was a twist of fate. He'd only gone out for a drink on a whim. He thought his life was on track, but a colleague of his was about to show him he was still missing something. Could she be that something? Jon/Harley


_(A/N:) __And once again, I have written a Jon/Harley. Crane is an addicting character to write about. This prompt follows a plot where Jonathan was rehabilitated and released back into society. He became a university professor which is inspired off his original origin story, where he was never a doctor at Arkham. "Temptation" was the prompt for this one-shot. It is theme #8 on livejournal's 50scene community._

_Is anyone concerned at the insane rate I'm writing one-shots? Anyway I have a quiz on my profile to get a feel for what type of novel-length fic I should undertake next. Be sure to vote!_

_Disclaimer: Insanity would ensue if I owned anything pertaining to the Batman Comics, Batman Begins/The Dark Knight, and any of its characters, so there has been agreement. I don't own them and this is fic is not meant for profit._

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A drink after work to end the day. It wasn't how Jonathan Crane normally spent his evening after clocking out from his job as Professor of Psychology at Gotham University, and he had declined offer after offer from many of his fellow professors before.

It had taken him almost a year to earn enough "good tally marks" to allow him a more accredited job after his release from Arkham Asylum. Gotham University had at first been reluctant to add him to their staff, but once word—somehow—had gotten out that he was being considered, students left and right began setting up events to show their support of the decision. He was very qualified and in the end that's what'd he'd been told earned him the job. He didn't believe it for one second. It was more likely a few subtle threats from the rich brats that often attended the college that had earned him his job. Society had such a dark taste, hiring an ex-mental patient.

Yet that event wasn't as important as it once had been. Now thirty-three, he'd held his university position for three years. The name "Scarecrow" was being lost to the masses and only a mention of it could bring frightened awe back into his pupils eyes. Now he was Dr. Crane, Professor of Psychology and specialist in Phobias.

Many of his students were too busy despising him to recall that he had once been a criminal; he was a professor who had a passion in his subject material that related into very "strict" methods of teaching. It wasn't that his class was hard, no he had a very well established passing rate, but a majority of the students were apathetic, only taking the class for a credit. Where were the people who enjoyed the seduction of the mind, the thrill of wandering into the darkest recesses of human nature and exploring their basest desires? It all sounded interesting to him, but then again he was known for rather _**unique**_ interests. He couldn't wait until his specialized class was approved of. Teaching basic introduction and a few upper division classes was tiresome in their lack of motivated students.

Scarcity of motivation had brought him here. He had just finished the long and drawn out report for plagiarism the University had. He'd caught a young man right in the act. Who was be ignorant enough to reprint a paper their very professor had written? That one essay had been the straw to break the camel's back, but there had been more. Horrid test scores, mediocre papers that didn't even sound like a college student wrote them. How were these students even there in first place?! If he was a patient and these were his prospective psychologists and psychiatrists—he shuddered to think upon that any further. He had needed a drink.

He tapped his fingers on the side of his bottle of Jack Daniels and stared from behind his frames at the hard, dark wood of the bar. He'd discarded tie and blazer in his white Prius before entering and now sat in his dark slacks and a white button-up. He raised the bottle to his lips and took a healthy gulp. Beside him someone sat down, but he didn't look. He instead placed his bottle back on the bar.

Everyone had a right to their privacy and he made a habit of not being one of those people to stare when a door opened.

"You look glum, Dr. Crane," however at that feminine voice he turned his head to stare at the woman beside him.

"Dr. Quinzel," he nodded noncommittally.

She placed her elbow on the bar and tilted her head to him, robin, blue eyes staring at him. "You want to join me and the other professors?" The question wasn't lilting or curious, more like forced, but her face showed no disdain, at least none directed at him. He saw her eyes trail behind him, mostly likely staring at the others and her lips pulled down slightly, features scrunching. He smiled lightly at that, but shook his head.

"I'll pass."

She nodded, but didn't pull away. She stared down into her glass of crimson liquid a moment then returned her eyes to him curiously. "Then can I join you?" His face filled with confusion, but he couldn't find a reason to deny her request. He nodded and she waved to the group before turning her body to fully face the bar. "Thank you."

"Is there something wrong with the other professors?" He asked. She grinned and he found himself sharing the infectious expression. He had always felt the requests for him to join them in their Friday Drink Nights were forced, like they felt they had to ask him out of courtesy. While he respected that they did ask, he was discomforted to know they weren't particularly keen on his presence. He would have felt even more left out had he ever accepted. The professors recalled his criminal history, and he supposed he made them uncomfortable. He wanted to roll his eyes at that.

"They're children," came her answer. She raised the glass to her lips and took a sip of the red wine.

Jonathan chuckled, "Those _**are**_ rather downers, huh?"

"All they ever do is get drunk, and become raucous...Well not all of them, but many of them, especially the males. Dr. Erring was already getting a little touchy."

He stiffened, "Touchy as in?"

"Don't worry, all you have to do is smack him. I can stand them getting a little tipsy, I do too sometimes, but what I can't stand is their snooty gossip."

He stared at her with a humorous smile. Dr. Harleen Quinzel, she was five years younger than him, and had just been added to the teaching roster at the beginning of the school year. She taught Psychology 101 as well, and had been a doctor at one of the other Mental Hospitals in Gotham. She had quickly discovered, so the Dean had said at her introduction, that she liked teaching more and thus here she was.

"Aren't you gossiping about them?" He asked, but it held no condescension. He lifted the bottle back to his lips.

"If I am, well, turnabout is fair play...but no," she shook her head with a small smirk, "I'm venting."

"Ah, venting," he nodded, placing his drink down and leaning on his own hand and staring at her, "is there any reason I get to be lucky one you vent to?"

Instantly her cheeks colored, but her eyes didn't leave his. In the bar lighting her blush was almost not noticeable, but he had spent years perfecting observation so "almost not noticeable" might as well have been "obvious" to him. He didn't want to cause her any undue embarrassment at voicing he had noticed it, so he pretended to ignore it for the moment and instead raised an eyebrow with an disarming smile.

"Because I thought you should know it's you they gossip about."

He shouldn't have been surprised, and really he wasn't, not at fact he was being spoken about behind his back. He was shocked that she was telling him, her voice filled with no lack of contempt. She shook her head, and he saw tendrils of her loosely restrained blonde hair capture the light.

"I give them obvious hints of my disgust of their behavior. At least they could have the balls to talk to your face instead of hiding out in a musky bar like it's their own secret society. I've told them out loud, but in a very reasonable voice to stop, but they don't. If I have a problem with someone I tell them _**in person**_, and that's the problem. They don't really have a reason to dislike you, but you know they call you weird, dangerous, and I think they're scared you'll find out that they've been talking about you and do something to them."

"And here you are, the traitor amongst them telling me their secrets," he stated simply, "why?"

"I told them if they didn't stop I would tell you. Me a traitor?" She shook her head, but her voice was sharp, "I can only be that if I'm one of them, and I'm not. I only hang out with them because I'm new and I wanted to," she raised her hands and quoted in the air, "build myself rapport with the other staff, but in doing so, I realize how little rapport I've built up with you. I mean we've talked a little here and there, but not much and I'd rather be labeled their childish petty names, than listen to them in reference to someone else. It's one thing if they're just gossiping, but its another if I feel like I'm back in grade school."

"So this is a rapport?" He gestured between them.

"Not really, I wanted to get away from them and I saw you. And well, I've wanted to talk with you for a while but I could never really ask what it was you did on Fridays."

"Afraid I'll tell you I'm still experimenting with the Fear Toxin?" He leaned forward his voice dropping to a playful whisper. He noticed to his intrigue that she didn't pull away, but crossed her arms and snorted.

"Nope, I'd love it if you were because I'd like see our fellow staff members be so mighty and brave facing their own fears honestly. I'd like to see them go to Arkham and then be released and rise back to a prominent place in society."

"Flattery will get you nowhere, Dr. Quinzel."

"Harley, call me Harley, and I meant it as compliment yes, but I'm not fishing for one myself. I want to let you know that just because you did what you did, I'm not going to oust you because of it. So what do you do on Fridays, because I know you've never accepted their invites to come here?"

"I never even knew this was where they came, but to be honest, Harley," he said her name slowly so as not to accidentally call her by her title, "I grade my papers and most of the time go home for a quiet evening."

"And there's nothing wrong with that." She nodded. She looked at her empty glass, but shook her head. "I can't drink another glass of that, I'll just get water next."

"You're a very adapting person. You just sat beside me and started talking like you've known me for years."

"And you replied. You've been talking right back, so I'd say that somewhere in Jonathan Crane there's a person who wants to talk just as much as I do. You seem very comfortable. To be honest, _**I am**_ actually nervous."

"Oh, you are?" He actually _**had**_ noticed. The subtle twitching of her fingers and a tick in her leg, told him she was slightly nervous, but they weren't distracting. In fact, he admitted to himself they were endearing. Harleen Quinzel was a beautiful young woman, he couldn't deny it and for some time he had been thinking that perhaps she was watching him. He often did work in the staff lounge, and so did she. He had felt himself being watched many times, but the only person in the room most of the time was Harley. Yet he'd look up and she'd be staring into her computer screen, typing as steadily as she always had been.

Once again a flush spread over her cheeks and this time he smiled at her. "Yes," she sighed, "I'm waiting for the minute I say something wrong, or do something that makes you see me as just another young, air-headed professor."

"I'm hardly older than you," he replied softly, surprised by it, "my opinion of you professionally need not concern you." He'd not had enough alcohol to embolden him, so was this all him? Harley was a radiant woman who seemed to be grounded and intelligent. She was a rare gem. He spoke to her because he couldn't lose such an opportunity, and he'd been watching her too. It was the reason he stayed in the staff lounge to do his work still. She didn't possess the superiority that many of the elder professors and himself admittedly had. She was humble, but she was sharp, he had often her seen get into a debate with other professors and even her students over lunch break, when they would seek her out for course guidance. In a simple phrase: Harleen was attractive to him in every way he could imagine.

"Yes, it should. I'm a colleague of yours. I don't want to besmirch myself and then make it awkward for us to work together because I promise you, I wouldn't quit."

"You're lying. You're nervous, yes, but not because you're afraid of me professionally."

"You _**are**_ a little creepy, but you're nothing like they say." She laughed. Jonathan pulled back slightly. She raised her hands, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to insult you, but the others just seem to think you're rather unsocial, and though I can't say you've not been perhaps in the past, with you so easily talking to me, it's hard to believe you've actually been called callous. I think you're just focused, and perhaps," she bit her lip and then shook her head, "no, no, I'll stop. Psychoanalyzing co-workers is wrong."

"Then I'll have to apologize, Harley. I believe it's been obvious I've been analyzing you since you sat beside me."

"I thought was a social discrepancy. Have you been doing it on purpose?"

"Did you just call me socially inept?"

She leaned forward, "Maybe, Dr. Crane." She raised an eyebrow.

He recalled a time when he had been callous on purpose, but one does not argue with a second chance. He'd behaved, came to regret his transgressions, and faced his childhood memories of his grandmother and Sherry that perhaps had triggered his psychosis. Mr. Ducard had not helped in that department either; the man had done nothing but feed his madness. Yet it was all behind him now. He felt his lips stretch into a feral smile. "Jonathan, if I can call you Harley, you can call me Jonathan."

What a bold woman. Where had she been those years ago before he'd fallen? Probably still in school cultivating the mind that now attracted him like a bee to a colorful flower. "It's a habit of mine, reading people, so forgive me if I ever made you uncomfortable."

She leaned back and shook her head, "No, you're fine. You reading me give me every right to return the favor."

He finished his bottle and turned his attention back to her, "Yes, it did, so with that settled what else were you going to say earlier? You think the others perceive me as callous because I'm more focused and...?"

She wrung her hands, "I think you were waiting for someone to talk to you, I mean _**actually**_ talk to you. You're not a charity case so don't give me that cold look, I bet is wanting to appear on your face. I wanted to talk to you," she averted her gaze, "I've wanted to for a while."

"About what?"

"Basics, you know? Hi my name is...I'm from...I just wanted to get to know you, actually."

"I'm from Georgia."

She turned back to him. He found her bouts of being bold and shy amusing, but it was hard to get a thought more than that at the light in her eyes. "From Georgia?"

"Yeah, I know, I got rid of my accent."

"Why? I bet it was adorable."

"That's why."

She crossed her arms, "Hey, there's something about a guy who grew up in the country that just attracts a woman, but you can forget it now, you ass." She turned away in mock rejection. He wouldn't take that. Attraction, huh? Oh, was she losing her subtleness, now?

"What about you?" He asked.

"Brooklyn was my last residence, but my Dad was in the army. We moved a lot." She pivoted back to him.

"No wonder your voice is so interesting," he commented and then realized that he'd just said that aloud, but she wasn't angry or frightened. She was...blushing again. He had to admit he liked her blush. "Did you go to Gotham for your degrees?"

"No, I went to NYU for my Bachelor's and Master's. I came here for Medical School and my Doctorate of Medicine...and then of course a teaching certificate. What about you, Jon?"

"Gotham Alumni through and through, but I guess I could let you slide. NYU," he scoffed in mock disgust. She hit him on the arm and stuck up her nose. He was enjoying this night far more than he had expected.

"That was rather rude, Harley. So childish..." He tsked.

"I'm the youngest. I can be if I want."

He laughed and then so did she. "How old are you?"

Five, give or take twenty-three years." She exclaimed proudly. "And you?"

"Thirty-three years young, thank you, ma'am."

"Are you drunk?" She asked.

"Are you?"

She stood up and then took a step and purposely fell against him, "No, I can," she slurred, "have another. Just one more, pwease, Jonny?" She pretended to right herself. Jonathan helped her, grinning all the while. Actually he had just wanted to touch her. He had been startled when she fell into him. It was hardly unpleasant; he'd enjoyed it immensely and his pulse had quickened as a result. He snickered. "No, I think you've had enough," he shook a finger at her.

She sat back down and just smiled. "So this is the real Jonathan Crane?"

"Nope, this is my night job."

Her smile grew and her eyes softened. He leaned a little closer to her, "What about you, is this the real Harleen Quinzel?"

"No, I think I lost her a wine glass ago," she laughed. She closed her eyes and Jonathan came a little closer, beginning to raise his hand to touch her face, but he quickly leaned back when her eyes opened and placed his hand at his mouth level, elbow on the bar. So close!

"You have a specialty in Psychology, right?" He nodded at her question. "Phobias?"

"Yes."

"You really are a Master of Fear. That part of the psyche interests me too. I mean phobias are irrational fears, stuff that most of the time are unexplained. I mean you can have a bad experience, but a man who has never flown before fears flying. A woman, never bitten by a spider, fears the arachnid which is so minuscule compare to her and would be eradicated with a single, well-placed hit with a shoe. Yet she's paralyzed and can't even walk towards it, only back away. It sounds very challenging."

"Thank you," and he truly was thankful that he'd not gotten a frightened look; those were becoming grating enough to make him want to actually show the person something to be afraid of, "and your specialty?"

"Behavioral Psychology, why people act the way they do and how environment and biology coexist to form a person and the mind. I like to study how events lead a person to psychopathy. You're also a specialist in Psychopharmacology aren't you?"

"I was," he nodded, "but I lost my accreditation to practice it."

"I know, but you know, I bet your toxin if perfected the right way, would actually be a sensational drug, maybe to help conquer phobias and fears and other such things. You respect the mind's power over the body, but what about the other way around?"

"I do respect that in times of need the mind can overpower the body if one just wills, but yes, I also understand the body's control over the mind. Emotions are a driving force and bring even the most intelligent to their knees. The body is equally as strong and I cannot fault instinct."

"It is not enough to conquer, one must know how to seduce." She nodded to herself.

"Voltaire," he replied with respect.

"Yeah, one power is useless without the other. There can be no reason without madness, light without dark," her eyes found his, "love with out lust. In the end good and evil shape us like a sculptor's hand."

"I must say, I am very impressed with you, you certainly aren't a child, are you?"

"No," she shook her head and he noticed her voice drop, "I'm a woman who knows what she wants."

He knew what he wanted too, and the look in her eyes at that statement told him that perhaps those two things weren't so different. Beauty, brains, sarcasm, power. He was becoming more snared by the minute. Perhaps he could move a little faster after all and she wouldn't mind his admission of attraction.

"Dr. Quinzel," that broke the moment.

He twisted to see one of the professors, Dr. Cayman making her way towards them. She gave Jonathan a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Dr. Crane," she nodded curtly then refocused her attention on Harley, "Dr. Quinzel, the rest of us were heading home, and as designated driver this week I need to ask whether you're coming."

Harley shook her head, "I'll catch a taxi or something, Jonathan and I were just getting into the nitty-gritty that forms the psyche of all human beings, the base desires." She grinned. Cayman nodded at her, but Jonathan could see the uneasiness that was spreading over her features. She shot a glance to him, but patted Harley on the back.

"Well, you have fun. See you on Monday, Dr. Quinzel, Dr. Crane."

She watched them leave, and then turned to him. "You'd think by the look she gave me, I'd just started to do some kind of voo-doo ritual where I danced, flailing dead bodies."

"What scares people about the human mind?" He was joking, but he turned to Harley to see her face fall into contemplation.

She sighed, "The truth, you dig deep enough and you'll find something of yourself every time. A part of you and your past, you don't want to face. Everyone at some point in their lives suffers from some mental ailment, but not everyone goes and seeks help or needs it."

"True words, you've been institutionalized haven't you?"

"Severe Anxiety Disorder. My mom died when I was eighteen, for years after that my Dad and I had a rocky relationship. I had one bad day and I just sort of lost it. I checked myself into a hospital when I started wanting to hurt myself. I took college classes whilst attending therapy and recovered in a little over a year. I wanted to understand myself so I started studying Psychology, but after I understood me, I wanted to understand and help others and it's just grown from there." She smiled softly. "Life story, there ya go, in a nutshell."

Jonathan slid from his seat and came to stand before her, "That's why you understand isn't it?"

"Yes and no," she raised her head to stare into his eyes whilst speaking softly, "I never became so overwhelmed I lost it completely and hurt someone. You have, but I don't see that Jonathan Crane. Everyone else does, though, but going through what I did, I learned there's more to a person than a surface. If you didn't want to change you could have gone back to doing what you had before. You didn't, though. You got a license to teach and worked and worked to become a professor. You did too much just to fall back into being Scarecrow so easily."

He reached out and placed a hand on the back of her chair; his other hand touched her cheek, and he brought his face closer to hers. He stared into her eyes. She didn't flinch, she didn't try to get away. He could see her pulse fluttering in her neck, though. She was excited. He took his hand from her face and tilted her head.

Her lips parted gently. He stared at those as he came closer. He only hesitated a moment to glace into those eyes of hers before he kissed her chastely, tasting the sweet wine she had had earlier. He didn't pull back completely and all thoughts that he was going to left him as he felt her fingers at the back of his neck.

He grinned, "So, Harley, how about I treat you to dinner tomorrow? We'll see how that goes and then perhaps you could make my Friday nights more eventful?" He stared into her eyes.

"Pick me up at seven?"

His lips brushed hers, "Seven it is," and he kissed her again, a hand falling to her waist as she angled her head for him and the kiss deepened.


End file.
